


Crown of Dorne

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Ned Stark Lives, Oberyn Martell Lives, Politics, Sansa never goes to King's Landing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: When Arianne begs her father to let her travel Westeros before taking the ruling seat, she never expects to find love in the North.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Robb Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 123





	Crown of Dorne

Prince Doran shakes his head adamantly. “No, Arianne.”

Arianne drops to her knees in front of him, sets her hands gently on his knees. “Please.”

“No,” he repeats, and reaches forward to cup her cheek. “I cannot risk you.”

She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I am perfectly capable of defending myself. And you have Quentyn and Trystane if something does happen to me.”

Doran shakes his head gently. “Your brothers are too kind, my dear. Quentyn has grown into a fine warrior, but does not have the ruthlessness in him that is sometimes required of a ruler. Trystane is too often with his head in the clouds. You are my eldest and my heir. What kind of father would I be, what kind of prince would I be, if I let you run off to galavant about Westeros on your own?”

Arianne shoves to her feet, begins pacing in frustration. “How can you expect me to rule when I do not know our enemies from our allies? I cannot protect or guide our people against threats I do not know!”

He stares at hre for a long time. Her skin is almost the exact shade as his own. Her hair is black as a starless night though streaked with strands of gold and copper from the desert sun, and he knows it hangs past her waist when she unbinds it from it’s braids. Her eyes, though… her eyes are so dark that both he and her mother marveled at their depth when she was a babe. His daughter is beautiful, no doubt. His eyes drift past that beauty, to the scars visible on her arms, to the stubborn set of her shoulders, to the spear strapped on her back and the curved blades sheathed at her hips. His daughter is beautiful, yes, but she is strong too, a warrior in her own right. He sighs and drops his head to laugh at himself before meeting her eyes again.

She meets his gaze unflinchingly.

He inclines his head. “Alright.” He lifts a hand, holding a single finger up. “One year. You have one year before I send your uncle after you.”

Arianne beams. She kneels in front of him again, taking his hands in her own to kiss his knuckles gently. “Thank you, Father.”

He lifts a hand to rest on her hair. “Be careful, my dear.”

Arianne nods, then rises gracefully and exits the room.

Oberyn fades from the shadows a moment later. “Do you want me to follow her?”

Doran shakes his head. “She would catch you.”

Oberyn chuckles. “Yes, I believe she would.”

* * *

Arianne packs carefully, lightly. She takes only one trunk, not wishing to be burdened on the road, but also knowing that certain niceties could prove useful at some point in her travels. She carefully folds several nice gowns and bits of jewelry into the bottom of the trunk before carefully placing the false bottom, making sure it’s secure before somewhat haphazardly filling the rest of the trunk with with travel clothes, parchment, ink, quills, weapons, and a bit of money - most of her coin she’ll keep on her person. She studies her map one final time before carefully rolling it and placing it on top of everything and closing the trunk.

She’s been nearly everywhere south of the Stormlands, so she sails for Tarth, first. She spends a moon’s turn on the island - it’s beautiful in a different way than the beaches of Dorne - before sailing across the bay to Storm’s End. She spends a mere fortnight in Storm’s End before buying a horse and a cart and taking the Kingsroad north to King’s Landing. She keeps to Flea’s Bottom and the Road of Steel her fortnight in the city - the poor and working class often give the most honest impression of the ruling class, whether they mean to or not. From King’s Landing, she takes the Goldroad to Lannisport and Casterly Rock, then debates briefly before sailing to the Iron Islands. She doesn’t stay long before sailing back to the mainland and taking the River Road all the way to the Eyrie. Before long, she makes her way back to Kingsroad and turns her horse North, not stopping until she reaches the walls of Winterfell.

* * *

This far North is like nothing she’s ever seen before. She has to admit she finds it stunning, akin with Dorne, but dark where her homeland is light. A stiff wind blows the hood of her cloak back and she curses, immediately bringing it back up around her ears.

A throaty chuckle comes from behind her, and she whips to the side, startled that she hadn’t heard the rider approaching. She suspects his hair would curl if he allowed it to grow, and she can see the auburn glinting under the sun in the dark strands. Blue eyes watch her, clearly amused by something in her blatant perusal. The Northman raises his hands in amused surrender when she doesn’t remove her hand from her sword. “I mean no harm, my lady. You look like you’re a long way from home.”

Despite the broadsword at his hip, his body language does not indicate a threat, so she takes her hand away from her own sword.

He grins at her and spurs his horse the last few steps to come up alongside her, turning his gaze back to the walls of the keep. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She nods, then remembers his gaze is not on her. “It is, my lord.”

He turns his eyes back to her. “I am not a well traveled man, my lady, so I must admit I do not recognize your accent.”

“Dorne,” she surprises herself by answering honestly. “And what makes you think I’m a lady?”

He grins again. “You do not have the bearing of a commoner, my lady. What makes you think I’m a lord?”

She rolls her eyes. “Other than the direwolf on your sword belt?”

To her delight, he actually blushes, then inclines his head. “Robb Stark, my lady.”

She takes the hand he offers across the space between her cart and his horse. “You may call me Anne.”

He raises a brow at the lack of family name, but brushes a kiss across her knuckles. “A pleasure. Might I invite you to dine with my family tonight?”

She’s avoided royals and nobles so far - they’re so much more nosey than the common folk - but before she can come up with a polite way to decline, her stomach rumbles.

Robb laughs delightedly. “I’ll take that as a yes, then. Come along.” He spurs his horse forward without waiting for a response, clearly expecting her to follow.

She rolls her eyes at his presumption, but follows nonetheless, admiring his broad shoulders as they go.

Lady Stark greets her kindly, but suspiciously, and immediately has her shown to a guest room in the keep with orders for a bath as Robb sees to her horse and cart. She takes an immediate liking to the no-nonsense attitude most Northerners, including the maid, who introduces herself as Brin, sent to help her bathe, dress, and do up her hair. She’s in a tub of blessedly hot water within minutes of arriving. 

She sinks deeper into the water, appreciative of the extra hands to help wash her hair.

“All due respect, my lady, but how do you survive under all this hair in the South?” Brin inquires as she rinses soap from the thick tresses.

Arianne laughs brightly. “With much undignified sweating.”

“How do you want it styled?” The maid asks as she gently works rose oil into the wet mass.

Arianne rolls her shoulders and reluctantly stands from the tub. “Out of my face,” she quips, accepting the linens Brin offers her to dry with. She gestures toward her chest, placed at the foot of the bed in the room she was provided by a helpful stableboy upon her arrival. “There should be a dress in there suitable for dinner. Tied up with a black ribbon.”

It’s heavier than anything she has reason to wear at home, light gray with a scooping neck, fitted bodice, and loose skirt, dark orange suns embroidered around the hem, neckline, and fitted cuffs. Brin hums appreciatively as she pulls the garment from the trunk and unfurls it. Arianne can’t help but smile in agreement. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? I admit it was quite the indulgence. I wasn’t even sure I would travel far enough North to wear it when I had it made.”

Brin grins. “Well, I’m sure you’re glad you did now, my lady.”

A servant knocks on the door to take her to the dining hall just as Brin finishes pinning her hair back loosely. Most of it hangs loose, well past her waist in a way she rarely indulges, but a good bit is pulled back from her temples in intricate braids.

Arianne smiles. “It’s lovely, Brin. Thank you.”

Brin smiles back and bobs a quick curtsy. “My lady.”

She almost runs bodily into Robb outside the hall.

He steadies her at her elbows. “Alright, then?” 

She nods. “I have not worn a dress in… well, it’s been a while.”

Robb laughs and releases her elbows, then offers one of his own. “If you would allow me?”

Arianne smiles and accepts the escort into the hall.

“You clean up very well, my lady.”

“Robb!” Lady Stark appears at his side, hissing tone full of chastisement.

Robb shrugs unapologetically. “What? I merely meant the Northern style suits her.”

Lady Stark’s jaw ticks. “I apologize for my son, my lady.”

“Good gods, did Father finally find someone willing to put up with a suit from Robb?” A petite brunette snickers as she streaks past.

“Oi!” Robb protests and begins to step away after the girl.

Arianne subtly squeezes Robb’s arm, where she’s still gripping his elbow, and he halts the motion, glancing down at her sheepishly.

If Lady Stark’s shrewd gaze is any indication, she caught the motion.

“Our children were raised with manners, but rarely seem to remember them,” an older man, one who can only be Lord Eddard Stark if his looks and words are anything to go by, steps up behind Lady Stark. He offers a slight bow. “Eddard Stark, my lady.”

Arianne curtsies back without releasing Robb’s arm. “Anne, if it pleases my lord.”

Lord Stark accepts her introduction graciously, though with a similar wariness to his wife’s earlier expression, and introduces the rest of his family before asking her to sit with them. She ends up seated between Robb and young Lady Sansa, who eagerly asks her all about fashions in Dorne. Arianne indulgently answers all she can.

She returns to her room after the meal, but finds herself restless and grabs up her cloak, walking the passageways aimlessly until she hears laughter from the main hall. She pokes her head through the askew door and finds the Stark children, save the youngest, gathered in front of the roaring fireplace along with two other men near Robb’s age. Robb glances up and catches sight of her.

The young heir smiles broadly. “Lady Anne! Join us?”

Arianne steps into the hall and takes the chair Robb places next to his own, near the fire. She sheds her cloak against the back of her chair then turns to the new additions with a smile. “I don’t believe we met earlier.”

The nearest to her, a sandy-haired, stormy-eyed young man stands and swoops into a dramatic bow. “Theon Greyjoy, my lady.”

“Ah,” Arianne hums. “The estranged prince of the Iron Islands.”

Theon all but falls back into his chair, shock evident on his face.

“Jon Snow,” the first, dark hair, pale eyes, kind of sad look about him, introduces himself quietly.

Arianne’s eyes light up. “You’re Stark’s bastard?”

Jon flinches.

Arianne rolls her eyes. “Gods, I didn’t mean any offense.” She shakes her head. “The world would be a better place if everywhere treated bastards like they’re treated in Dorne. Most of my cousins are bastards and I love them dearly. I’ve never understood why most of Westeros insists on treating them like lepers or something,” she all but snarls the last. She decides the little smile Jon is trying to hide is worth whatever odd looks the rest of his siblings are giving her. Silence hangs heavy in the air.

“Right then,” Robb claps his hands together. “So tell us, Lady Anne, what is a highborn lady of Dorne doing this far in the North, on her own no less, and why has she not been home in over a year?”

Arianne snorts and determines she rather likes the irreverent attitude that seems to pervade the North. “Traveling. Tarth, Storm’s End, King’s Landing, Lannisport… even spent a bit of time on the Iron Islands.”

Theon’s head jerks up.

“No offense meant, Lord Theon, but your father’s absolutely mad.”

He flinches.

“Your sister, though… gods, I think the Drowned God would have swallowed up the islands as a whole if it weren’t for her holding your people together.”

“Yara?” He whispers.

Arianne nods. “She’s brilliant. Cunning, ruthless, and bold in a manner regretfully few women are.”

Theon smiles, just a bit. “She’s Ironborn.”

“You’ve traveled to all those places, by yourself?” Sansa interrupts, gaping.

Arianne inclines her head. “Yes.”

“Why?” Arya asks.

Arianne bites her lip, contemplating how to answer. “In Dorne, much like the idea of a bastard is of little consequence, gender is of little consequence. I am my father’s eldest child, so I am his heir. My father… my inheritance is no small thing. I want to be prepared for what I will come into. I wanted to know my allies and my enemies without them knowing who I am. My father did not want me to come, but I convinced him eventually.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell us who your father is,” Robb grins over at her.

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

She sends a raven to Dorne the next morning, asking her father to extend her year. She finds herself wanting to stay in Winterfell longer.

“Any good with that thing?” Robb calls, nodding toward the sword at her hip as she passes the training yards.

Arianne inclines her head, grateful she’d elected to put on a Dornish dress this morning - breeches under a short, split, flowing skirt - instead of one of her heavier Northern dresses. “Not bad.”

“Come and show us, then,” Theon taunts.

Arianne grins. Near an hour later, she’s sweating and pleasantly sore, and only Jon has managed to best her. She smiles widely and laughs when he manages to divest her of her blade. She retrieves it and bows slightly. “Impressive work. Not many can unsword me.”

Arya all but barrels into her legs. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

Arianne smiles gently. “If your father will allow it.”

Her father sends a raven back, with no mark upon the deal, allowing that she may remain in Winterfell until he calls her home. Her days fall into a comfortable routine. She breaks her fast with the Stark family, then spends the early morning in the training yards, splitting her time between teaching Arya to wield the small sword Jon produces for her and sparring with the young men of the household. The later morning is spent in the library or Lady Stark’s solar, writing letters or embroidering. Early afternoons are spent riding through the woods outside Winterfell with Robb, and often Theon or Jon, if only to keep Lady Stark from frowning and tutting about propriety, hunting and fishing before returning to the keep. More often than not, the late evening is spent in front of the fire in the great hall with the Stark siblings, exchanging stories and fairy tales and songs.

“You look at him as if you want to fuck him,” Theon observes idly, standing next to her the training yards one morning, watching Robb and Jon bash at each other with training swords.

Arianne shrugs, unashamed. “If this were Dorne, I likely already would have.”

Theon’s face betrays his surprise, but he covers it quickly with some kind of not-quite-feigned, if morbid curiosity. “Are you saying you are not a maid, my lady?”

Arianne rolls her eyes. “Have I mentioned how much I adore your lack of propriety, my lord?”

Theon grins, unrepentant.

“I am not a maid. The Dornish are not such prudes as the rest of Westeros.”

Theon shakes his head. “Not a maid, still a noble, and still stand to inherit your father’s estate.”

It’s not quite a question, but Arianne nods anyway.

Theon inclines his chin toward Robb and Jon. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Lady Anne, but if you wish to bed him, you’ll have to marry him.”

Arianne nods thoughtfully. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are you going to stand about all day or are you going to come make yourself useful?” Robb calls.

Arianne rolls her eyes, but unbelts her sword and hetfs her spear. “Let us see how your Northern steel fares against a spear.”

Torrhen Karstark arrives, with the rest of his father’s retinue, at the gates of Winterfell a day earlier than they had initially planned, though Lord and Lady Stark welcome them graciously. Lord Stark tells him he might find his own sons in the training yards before leading Lord Karstark into the keep. The last thing he expects to find is a dark skinned woman in breeches using a spear to sweep a laughing Robb Stark off his feet and onto his back.

The woman stands the spear on end and offers Robb a hand up, which the man takes readily, still smiling.

Torrhen scoffs. “I thought better of the Stark men than to see them bested a foreign woman.”

The bastard son, Jon, and the Greyjoy ward, Theon, both turn to scowl at him.

Robb simply smirks, using the sleeve of his linen shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Perhaps you would like to try your luck against the lady.”

“A proper lady does not wield a blade,” Torrhen says.

The lady in question raises an imperious brow. “You have not left the confines or your own surroundings have you, Lord…”

He has the presence of mind to bend in a shallow bow. “Torrhen Karstark, my lady. And no. The North is my home and I’ve had no cause to leave it.”

“Lord Torrhen. I thought not. Not everywhere in Westeros is so stifled, my Lord. Will you accept Lord Robb’s challenge?”

He tilts his head. “Did he offer one?”

She smiles, onyx eyes shimmering. “Maybe not in so many words, but I will. Spar with me, my lord.”

Torrhen wants to refuse, wants to cite the impropriety of fighting a woman, but clearly the men around him have faced her. “I fear if I refuse I shall appear a coward.”

She spins her spear. “Come now. Men in the North are supposed to be fierce. You do not fear a little thing like me, do you?”

Torrhen sighs. “I am not getting out of this, am I?”

Theon smirks. “Not with any dignity.”

His first few strokes, he feels confident, but it takes all of a mere minute for him to realize the lady is toying with him.

“Can we speed this up?” Robb calls. “I’m starving!”

The lady rolls her eyes. “You’re always starving.”

“I’m a growing boy!”

“You’re a man grown, despite your best efforts to prove otherwise.”

Robb clutches a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

The lady is barely even looking at him, and still keeping him at bay, dancing around him as if this is a game. As she ducks under his sword yet again, he realizes it _is_ a game for her. He loses his temper and lunges, and she merely laughs, spinning behind him so quickly he can’t quite track the move, and using the end of her spear to trip him forward onto his face.

Torrhen shoves to his feet, pride stinging and temper flaming. “What kind of slattern household would have a daughter trained in such a manner?”

“Lady Anne of Dorne, heir to her house,” Robb says drily.

The lady herself laughs instead of being offended, and offers a curtsy, despite the fact that she’s in breeches, but she also doesn’t hesitate to trip him with the end of her spear again as he attempts to storm out of the training yards.

He watches her, over the course of his visit. He has known the Stark brood his whole life, is expected to keep the company of the elder males, being of similar age, and Lady Anne seems to be wherever Robb Stark is. While appalled at first, as the days pass, he finds himself fascinated by her contrary nature. She wears breeches and skirts in equal measure. She fights and spars alongside the men in the training yard, and sits in sewing circles with the ladies. She hunts and rides alongside Robb almost daily, but also seems to genuinely enjoy playing the harp beside the fire in the main hall in the evenings after dinner.

“Am I so fascinating?” Her lightly accented voice startles him, coming from the shadows of an alcove in the corridor outside the hall. She steps into the light of the torches. She’s in a dress tonight, with long sleeves and a gauzy skirt that seems to float around her, the yellow material looking like flames around her legs in the reflection of the torches. She’s smirking by the time he drags his eyes back to her face.

He flushes. “My apologies, my lady.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You are… interesting.”

“Oh?”

“Contradictory.”

“Not in Dorne.”

“But you’re not in Dorne.”

“No, but Dorne is in me.”

“Then why are you in the North?

She tilts her head. “You are your father’s heir?”

He nods. “I am.”

“You know your liege lord?”

He frowns. “I am standing in his halls, am I not?”

“And you know the lesser lords? The vassals on the land of the Karstarks?”

“I do.”

“You know your allies, you know who to be wary of? You know who to make what trade agreements with?”

“Yes, now what is the point of all this?”

“Just as you are your father’s heir, I am mine. And all houses should have allies beyond their own borders. I have traveled all of Westeros over the last moons.”

“A woman the heir to a house large enough to require such allies? Dorne is a strange country indeed.”

“Not to me.”

“I still don’t believe I have heard precisely what house it is you are heir to…”

“Anne!” Robb’s voice interrupts from the door to the main hall.

A genuine smile crosses her face as she turns toward him. “Robb.”

Robb decides he’s heard enough and steps into the hall. “Everything alright?”

Torrhen stiffens.

Anne steps to his side, looping her arm through his. “To be honest I am quite weary with Lord Torrhen’s judgment.”

Robb’s eyes harden. “Then I shall have to spirit you away from him.”

She lets him guide her from the keep willingly, shoulders straight and nose up primly. She only lets her frustration show when they’re out sight of the keep, in the godswood under the stars, a frustrated huff escaping and her shoulders slumping.

Robb releases her arms and grasps her shoulders lightly, turning her to face him. “Now, are you really alright?”

She swallows tightly, and her head drops to his chest. “Is it so wrong to own who I am? To be proud of it?”

He wraps his arms around her shoulders. “Nay, my lady. Many here have grown to admire you for it.”

“Your father’s bannermen do not.”

“The North knows pride, Anne, but are not used to seeing it thus from others.”

“Hypocrites.”

He chuckles. “Aye.”

She pulls back, looks up at him under the moonlight. “I don’t know why I’m still here.”

A breeze gusts through the godswood and she shivers. He unfastens his cloaks and swings it around her shoulders, then tilts her chin up gently. “Yes, you do.” He lowers his face until his lips brush over hers, and kisses her gently. “Marry me.”

Her flutter closed for a mere moment before she steps back, shoving him away with tears in her eyes. “Robb, we can’t.”

Robb catches her hands, pulls her back into his chest. “Why not?”

She shakes her head, more tears forming.

Robb cups her cheeks, brushing her tears away with his thumbs. “Why not? Give me one good reason.”

She closes her eyes. “We’re from different worlds, Robb. We’re the heirs to houses nearly as far from one another as two places on one continent can be. I am not a maid.”

“I have brothers. I am not the only son of my house. And I don’t care if you’re a maid or not.”

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“So tell me.”

Ned is surprised when their mysterious Dornish guest asks him for a private meeting after residing within their halls for many moons. She had received a raven from Dorne, bearing no sigil - the seals on her letters from Dorne never bear sigils - this morning and immediately sent a servant to request an audience. She takes the seat he offers her before handing to sheets of parchment across his desk. The first appears to be the message she had received, and the second is a hand-written cipher.

“I fear I must ask you to burn the cipher once you’ve read the message, my Lord.”

He nods slowly, and grabs his inkwell and a blank sheet of parchment. He looks at her in shock when he finishes.

She bites her lip nervously. “I believe I have infringed on your hospitality too long without properly introducing myself, Lord Stark.” She stands and curtsies. “Princess Arianne Martell, at your service, my Lord.”

He clears his throat. “Does anyone else know this?”

She takes a deep breath and meets his eyes. “Only Robb, my lord.”

He raises a brow. “And I would imagine this letter from your father, dictating that you have full facility over yourself, is going to have something to do with my son?”

Robb steps into the office, almost startling Ned - he hadn’t even heard his footsteps approaching in the hall - and secures the door before moving to stand beside Lady Anne - no, Princess Arianne. “I know it is not the way of things, and I likely should have spoken with you first, Father, but I have asked Princess Arianne to be my wife.”

Later that night, in their chambers, Catelyn gapes at him. “You are allowing Robb to what?!”

Ned sighs. “It is a good match, Cat.”

“There are plenty of loyal Northern houses that would be-”

“Cat, he loves her.”

“He has a duty to his house!”

“We have other sons, Cat.”

Catelyn goes pale. “He’s leaving?”

Ned winces. He hadn’t meant to give that part away yet. “She’s the heir to her own house, my dear.”

“She has brothers. She has said so.”

Ned closes his eyes. “Aye, but her brothers do not have the temperament to rule.”

“Rule? Ned… who is she?”

He opens his eyes to meet his wife’s. “She is Princess Arianne Martell of Sunspear - Prince Doran’s heir.”

Cat’s eyes widen. “Martell? And he would allow her to marry a Stark?”

Ned chuckles. “He was rather clear that who she marries is her decision and hers alone.” He closes his eyes again, debating how much more to share.

“What else did he say?”

Damn his wife’s perceptive nature. He opens his eyes again. “Prince Doran offered to foster any of our children we should wish to send to Dorne, to further strengthen the ties between the North and the South.”

Cat sits heavily. “Ned, you can’t be considering…”

He nods. “I am.”

She eyes him warily. “Why?”

He sighs. “I received a letter from King Robert today.”

Lord Robb Stark and Princess Arianne Martell are married in two ceremonies - the first in the godswood and the second in the sept - with only the Starks, and Theon and Jon, as witnesses. Sansa and Arya are packed up and bundled off toward Dorne, escorted by Jon and their direwolf pups, less than a sennight later.

“Sansa was rather upset at being sent away,” Robb murmurs into the nape of her neck that night.

Arianne shrugs and settles against his bare chest. “She’ll be thankful for it someday. Prince Joffrey is not the fairy tale she dreams of. He is a cruel young thing and I fear he would have treated her ill.”

Robb huffs out a breath. “And then you would be a widow, for it would be treason to kill the crown prince, and I would if he ever harmed her.”

Arianne laughs and presses a kiss over his heart. “He would die far more painfully than by your sword if he ever harmed my dear good-sister, my love.”

He presses his lips to her temple. “I have heard your uncle is fond of poisons.”

“He is,” she confirms. “And seeing little girls come to harm is always sure to enrage him.”

King Robert’s retinue arrives on a sunny, cool morning.

“I seem to recall you boasting a larger family, old friend,” Robert jeers at Ned.

Lord Stark inclines his head. “I’ve recently sent my daughters off to foster with my good-daughter’s family.”

“One of your children has married?” Robert sounds genuinely surprised.

Ned nods. “My eldest, Robb, was blessed to make a love match. I apologize that they are away, dealing with a minor issue for one of my bannermen.”

Robert nods. “If only we were all so blessed. I’ll meet the lady soon enough. For now, I should like to pay my respects.”

In the crypts, Robert hints rather blatantly at a betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa.

Ned barely contains a wince. “Perhaps it is something we can discuss in the future, my friend. I would not uproot Sansa’s life so wholly twice in so short a span of time.”

Robert chuckles. “Aye. I suppose that would be unfair to the lass… perhaps your eldest will accompany you to King’s Landing with his new wife, at least for a time.”

Ned chuckles, forced but sounding light-hearted. “And what would I be doing in King’s Landing?”

“Acting as my Hand.”

Arianne is introduced at court as Lady Anne Stark. She can’t help but wrinkle her nose.

Robb, of course, notices. He leans down, close enough she can feel his lips on the shell of her ear. “Don’t like it?”

Arianne barely manages not to roll her eyes. “I am proud to be a Stark, husband.”

She feels his smile against her cheek. “Then why the face?”

“I do not like the court at King’s Landing.”

“I admit it’s not my taste either. What is court like in Dorne?”

“There is respect,” she answers quietly, as serious as she’s ever been in his presence. “There is no blind following. So long as it is done courteously, people are allowed to speak freely. All the lies and games do not go on as they do here.”

“You said you enjoyed your time in King’s Landing before.”

Arianne scoffs. “I spent my time in Flea Bottom and on the Steel Road.”

Robb chuckles, warily eyeing the crown prince sneering at some noble. “Aye. I can see how that would be a more enjoyable use of time.”

Arianne loathes every moment she spends in King’s Landing, but stays for her good-father’s sake. The first bright moment is when her uncle arrives with Ellaria on his arm. She sneaks into the rooms they’ve been provided the night they arrive.

Ellaria beams and sweeps her into her arms. “You look lovely, darling!”

Arianne smiles back. “I am so glad you’re here. This place is dreadful.”

Ellaria scoffs. “I have no doubt.”

Oberyn sweeps in, then, kissing his niece's cheek. “Where is this husband of yours?”

“In the Tower of the Hand,” Arianne answers, hugging him tightly.

“Are you coming home soon?” Ellaria asks.

Arianne sighs. “I am ready to.”

Oberyn tilts his head. “But?”

“I fear leaving my good-father here alone. He is too honorable for the court of King’s Landing.”

The crown prince’s wedding is all manner of distasteful pomp. Arianne is honestly surprised when he falls, clutching at his throat. That honest surprise, she’s sure, is the only thing that keeps her from smiling at the vile creature’s demise.

“Your uncle is known for poisons, is he not?” Robb’s voice in her ear is concerned.

She frowns and shoots a sidelong glance at the Red Viper. “This wasn’t him. He would have been more subtle.”

She corners her uncle in his rooms after Tyrion’s farce of a trial, regardless of her words to her husband. “Was it you?”

Oberyn clutches at his chest. “So little faith!”

Arianne rolls her eyes. “You know I had to ask.”

He drops his hands and shrugs.

“It wasn’t the imp.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I do not believe it was.”

She cocks her head. “The Tyrell’s perhaps?”

He shrugs again. “Olenna, at the very least.”

“He’s the only decent Lannister.”

Her uncle scoffs. “Is there any such thing?”

“If there is, it’s Tyrion.”

Oberyn sighs. “You want me to fight for him.”

Arianne shrugs, all practiced nonchalance. “The queen will call on the Mountain to fight for her.”

Arianne sees the moment her uncle chooses to be cocky, and across the arena, sees the moment Ellaria, her aunt in all but name, sees it too. She has spent more than two years wandering Westeros, and not revealed her true name to any but her husband’s family. But now… she sees the Mountain's fingers twitch and steps forward, drawing herself up with every ounce of the royal bearing she was raised with.

"Pride will be the death of you! Finish it!" She calls above the crowd, above her uncle's speech.

His eyes flick to her for less than a second before he spins and buries his spear in Gregor Clegane's neck. She sees Ellaria's shoulders sag in relief.

There is a feast, ostensibly in honor of the gods proclaiming the innocence of the fallen King's uncle. Ellaria is the only person Arianne allows into her rooms as she prepares, unearthing one of her dresses from the hidden bottom of her trunk.

"Has your lover seen you in this before?" Ellaria smirks, gently doing up the laces that sit low under the open back of the garment - pale orange with panels of red Myrish lace inset in the skirt, slits halfway up her thighs on both legs and cut outs over her ribs.

Arianne shakes her head, eyes shining.

Ellaria braids and pins her heavy tresses atop her head, leaving her back and neck bared, better to display the intricate golden chain of fire opals she hangs about her neck.

Ellaria kisses her cheek lightly. "He's going to embarrass himself right in the middle of the feast," she whispers.

Arianne laughs.

Robb nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of the Dornish beauty that enters the feast on Oberyn Martell's arm. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to recognize his wife. Her smirk tells him she knows as much, and the glimmer in her eyes tells him she'll make him pay for it later. In this moment, though, he merely stumbles toward her blindly, taking her hand and tucking it into his elbow in a daze.

"Like what you see, my Lord?" She asks teasingly.

Robb leans close enough to whisper in her ear, "You in nothing at all is the only prettier thing I’ve ever laid eyes on."

She laughs delightedly, heedless of the gaping lords and ladies around them, and kisses his cheek. "Good answer."

"Lord Stark," Tywin Lannister's voice draws their attention.

Robb doesn't take his eyes from her, question clear.

Arianne turns her gaze to Lord Tywin. “Forgive my lord husband, Lord Tywin,” she smiles conspiratorially and leans forward, ever so slightly, “I fear this is the first time he’s seen me in the attire of my homeland and he appears to have quite lost his tongue.”

Tywin inclines his head. “With all due respect, my lady, I cannot say I blame him. You are a rare beauty.”

“A high compliment, coming from one such as yourself, my lord.”

“At risk of sounding rude, I fear I have not caught your name, my lady.”

Arianne offers a _very_ shallow curtsy. “Princess Arianne of House Martell, my lord.”

Tywin’s face shutters and his brows go up.

“She surprised us all,” Oberyn interjects, approaching with Ellaria on his arm. “There is no love lost between our families, but they are quite handsome together, no?”

“I admit I am surprised Lord Stark approved of the match. And such noble houses… was the king’s approval not sought?”

Arianne smiles sweetly. “You forget, Lord Tywin, that Dorne is not subject to the whims of the crown’s marriage alliances.”

Tywin’s jaw ticks. “Dorne has been allowed such freedoms over the years, but never before to a house as old and noble as the Starks.”

“Princess Arianne!” Margaery Tyrell approaches.

Arianne curtsies, deeply, respectfully. “Your grace, my condolences for your loss, old friend.”

Margaery reaches out and clasps her hands. “Thank you, my princess. And it has been brought to my attention that congratulations are in order to you, my friend! Lord Stark is quite the catch. Such a match has never been made between the far North and far South before.” She turns to Lord Tywin. “And Lord Tywin. My congratulations on the gods proclaiming your son’s innocence. I pray daily that we find those responsible for my dear Joffrey’s demise.”

Tywin’s purses his lips and bows his head. “My ladies, my lords.” Then he turns on his heel and stalks away.

Arianne hides her laughter in Robb’s shoulder.

“What in the seven hells just happened?” Robb gapes after Tywin.

Arianne smiles up at him. “I believe Lord Tywin realizes he has been outplayed, my love.”

Robb’s brow scrunched. “Outplayed?”

Arianne nods. “And the best part is we didn’t even mean to do it.”

“What?”

She reaches up and cups his cheek. “I fell in love with you, but our marriage united the strongest houses in the North and South.”

Margaery tucks her hand into Oberyn’s free elbow. “And the Tyrell’s are have a decent army of our own. Not to mention we’re even wealthier than the Lannister’s.”

Robb frowns.

Arianne squeezes his arm. “House Martell and House Tyrell have always had a near unbreakable alliance.”

“And of course,” Oberyn drawls, “it will only make sense to marry young King Tommen to the people’s darling Lady Margaery.”

“And the dear boy is so impressionable,” Ellaria adds.

Robb’s face goes slack, then he laughs. “Gods, we accidentally unseated the Lannisters from power.”


End file.
